


To the Pines

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Established Relationship, F/M, Foreign Language, Languages and Linguistics, Modern Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6200125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been studious behind her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Pines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mywordsflyup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/gifts).



> mywordsflyup prompted me with "things you said that I wasn't meant to hear" for Cullavellan. Naturally, it called for a very beloved headcanon.
> 
> A very interesting thing about Elven is that "ma" can mean my, mine, you, or your. Gotta love context.

He‘s been practicing quite covertly, and entirely under her nose. There are books, but those range from outdated colloquialisms to novelty gags - “100 Naughty Elven Phrases Everyone Should Know” - which he‘s bypassed in favor of online resources. The information he finds there is normally up to date, and occasionally even politically sound.

 

Their progress together is far more enjoyable, but slow going; they both have their duties to attend to, and lessons in Elven often fall by the wayside despite their best intentions. Her free time does not always coincide with his, and vice versa. But he wants to know, the desire to share in some small part of her life a  consuming one.

 

So: he‘s been practicing.

 

Their last lesson was perhaps month ago, and to Cullen‘s surprise, he‘s managed to learn quite a lot in that time. Rigorous study rather than a natural inclination toward language comes into play with how well he‘s retained it - a skill he learned as a young Chantry boy, memorizing canticle after canticle while he could scarcely recall the names of half his classmates. But he‘s been diligent - watching youtube videos on pronunciation in his quarters at night, listening to grammar podcasts in the morning in preparation for work, scrolling through articles of idioms on his phone through lunch.

 

She‘s been away on Inquisition business for most of that month, wrapping up alliances in Nevarra with Josephine and Cassandra. It‘s been days since their return, days in which Cullen‘s been feverishly reviewing everything he‘s learned; they haven‘t had more than a moment alone, but he knows her schedule to be free all evening.

 

He knows, because she‘d told him as much in a quick pass by his office early that morning - leaned up into him as he was stepping out of his door and dragging him back inside with a firm grip on his jacket, pulling each other into a hard exchange of hugs and kisses. “Later,” she‘d said, butting her forehead against his, and struggling with the reality that she had to extricate herself from his hold. “Supper. I‘m free after. Let‘s -”

 

“I‘ll find you,” he‘d promised. It was only after she‘d left, when he was trying to right himself after the mauling that he dropped his face to his palm with a curse; he could have said that in Elven.

 

Still, he had time to prove his dedication later. The knowledge was there; he only had to remember to apply it. And perhaps with frequent application, it would become habit. Perhaps he‘d even develop some skill at it.

 

Though there were several elves in the Inquisition‘s employ, few were Dalish. He knows she doesn‘t often have the opportunity to revert to her mother tongue, and it‘s a comfort when she does. Every day, she speaks a language not her own for the benefit of a people who make no attempt to do the same. He only hopes he can be a greater part of that small comfort.

 

Late in the afternoon, Cullen has a thought. He‘s being hasty, he knows, but she can get caught up in work long after her obligations are fulfilled. It‘s a trait they share. But Cullen‘s finished his own duties with a flourish late in the afternoon, and leaves the rest to his lieutenant to retreat to the kitchens.

 

They aren‘t pleased to see him so late in the controlled chaos that is dinner preparation, but he tries to keep out of their way, and eases some looks when he asks them to set a plate aside for the Inquisitor herself.

 

They pile a tray high with breads and cheeses, roast in a hearty stew, pears, and half a dozen miniature tarts of imported Rivaini lemon. Before he can break himself out in fear that one tray will become two, an older elven chef slots one last thing in beside the bread loaves. Cullen‘s never found it in the communal dining hall, but on occasion he‘s seen her devour several in her quarters when she takes her meals alone. It‘s a cylindrical log, packaged neatly inside several banana leaves, freshly steamed. He knows the shape inside the leaves is rice, tightly packed, and flavored with vegetables and meat and a variety of spices. He also knows it‘s the first thing she‘ll set her sights on, and the first thing she‘ll devour.

 

“Ma serannas,” Cullen says. His attempt is clumsy, but the old elf‘s surprise fades quickly into a half smile.

 

He hopes, at least, that the Inquisitor‘s response will be so genial.

 

Cullen guards the food most diligently from gravity and Sera both, up through the keep, across, the hall, and up again on the Inquisitor‘s stairs. She has more stairs than even he does; he‘s counted. He hears her voice drift down, quietly at first, then louder as he ascends. Cullen worries he might have interrupted some unforeseen meeting, but with frequent, long silences in between her responses, he gathers that she‘s on a call.

 

It‘s only when he‘s at the open door of the last stairwell that he realizes she isn‘t speaking Common at all.

 

Her clan, perhaps. Family he knows so little about.

 

It isn‘t polite to eavesdrop, but he's not going to let her food grow cold on the stairs, and he was invited. This alone bolsters his nerve to begin the final ascent. If it looks to be a poor time, he‘ll leave the food and return later.

 

He doesn‘t actively listen, but he realizes with slow and quiet steps, that he understands bits and pieces of what she says “.. _. twenty-two days..._ ” and “... _must be quick.._.” and “... _tonight, busy._..”

 

And then:

 

_“Yes, he.”_

 

And then:

 

_“My heart.”_

 

Cullen stops, in spite of his better intentions.

 

“ _You ask much,_ ” she goes on, her irritation palpable, and it gets Cullen‘s feet moving again. He makes a little more noise as he goes then, and her eyes find him as he appears at the top. She‘s on the bed, cross-legged and freshly bathed, Cullen surmises from the damp of her hair and her simple state of dress. Her feet are bare, poking out from beneath her knees, and the sight of her in nothing more than a loose tunic and leggings seems terribly intimate.

 

Her eyes go soft around the corners, and she lifts a hand in greeting. He‘d lift one back, but his hands are full. Speaking of, he walks the tray over to her desk and sets it down.

 

 _“Must go,”_ she says, and the petal-soft sounds of her unraveling from the bed to stand reach his sensitive ears, so finely attuned to her. _“Tomorrow, we speak again.”_ And his hands twitch over the warm loaves of bread when she snorts says clearly unto Cullen‘s ears, _“I will give him not your love, but I will give him mine.”_

 

She ends the call with a muted sigh and comes to Cullen‘s side to survey the small feast. “You‘re early,” she says in Common. Her voice is lovely like this too, of course, but the words have lost their graceful lilt. “I was speaking with my brother. He sends his regards.”

 

 _Love_ , Cullen quietly corrects, and wonders if it‘s just an Elven turn of phrase. Maker, but he hopes not, if she meant it when she said...

 

“Thank you for all this,” she says, and bypasses everything instantly for the rice wrapped in leaves.

 

Cullen smiles, faintly.

 

“It was no trouble.”

 

They migrate out to the balcony, and she all but attacks it, hungry as anything. It‘s a case of pot and kettle, but he doesn’t like knowing that she probably missed at least one meal today, if not two.

 

“Did you understand any of our conversation?” she asks, licking her fingers for any last sticky traces of rice before pulling a loaf of bread apart. Cullen pauses over his own loaf. He clears his throat.

 

“Parts of it,” he answers shortly. He‘d never intended to reveal his budding knowledge by way of eavesdropping.

 

The look in her eyes says she‘s pleased about it. “Anything in particular?”

 

“Ah...” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing out over the mountains.

 

“Cullen.” Her tone firms, and the soldier in him stands at attention. He startles when her hand comes to knock against his shoulder. “It‘s nothing to fret over. Learning another language is challenging, and we haven‘t had the opportunity for review in weeks. ”

 

Cullen‘s breath turns into laughter halfway through. She‘s concerned for his feelings - that he feels guilt for knowing too little. “On the contrary,” he says, abandoning his bread on the tray and taking her free hand, “it‘s quite the opposite.”

 

She makes an inquisitive grunt through a mouthful of bread, and despite everything, the little furrow in her brow lightens his heart.

 

His face grows hot with anticipation and nerves as he forms the sentence carefully in his head before he says: _“I know more now.”_

 

She pauses mid-chew. Cullen can feel his lips twitch, fighting a smile.

 

_“You spoke; I understand - understood much.”_

 

She swallows too fast, and coughs when it sticks in her throat. “What,” she squawks, thumping at her own chest. Cullen squeezes her hand.

 

 _“I practiced. Many weeks, every day. I want - wanted you...”_ he breaks, Common leaving his mouth before his brain can stop him, “no, sorry, I - oh, Maker. Let me try again?” He steps closer, folding his left hand over hers in his right. _“I wanted you, hear me._ To _hear... me? I want... understanding. Understand you.”_

 

If he returned to the kitchens now, Cullen‘s reasonably sure they could fry an egg on his face.

 

 _“You heard me, say what?”_ she asks, Elven trailing from her tongue like music. Cullen struggles and fails to maintain eye contact.

 

 _“Your heart,”_ he confesses, indicating the _ma_ as hers with a little incline of his head. She looks... her eyes are wider than he‘s ever seen them. Her posture is rigid, tensed in preparation for flight. “Ma vhenan,” he repeats, but presses her hand to his chest. He only hopes she hears him as he wants to be heard.

 

“Oh,” she says. Looks up into his eyes. Curls her fingers. “Your accent has improved.”

 

“Thank you,” says he, just as quietly, with greater humor. “I think neither of us intended to reveal ourselves this way.

 

She scowls down at her hand upon his chest, but it‘s pensive. “We did not,” she agrees. “And yet, here we are.”

 

“Yes.” Cullen wants to laugh, a minor hysteria fizzing up in his throat. So he says again, in Elven, _“Yes.”_

 

She moves abruptly. Her mouth has a bitter, heavy taste from the bread, and it‘s more than fine because he shares it. One of her hands remains crushed between them; the other cups his jaw. She rasps her palm against the grain of his beard, and then back.

 

This was always how the evening was to end, but now, there’s something else to it. Now it’s… more.

 

A raven lands on the rail of the balcony and startles them apart. She shoos it from the spread, and Cullen presses his knuckles to his mouth for a short moment before he suggests they take their meal back inside. He wants to feed her, and he wants to kiss her, and he’s very certain deep in his gut that neither of them can possibly wait.

 

So he kisses her on the bed when she’s barely swallowed a mouthful of pear, sweet and light and sticky, and his heart thuds in his chest so hard it must be trying to escape. She eats twice as much as he does (though he's had more than his share of the lemon tarts) before she rolls over him, murmuring something into his ear he only catches little bits of.

 

And he thinks, Ah. Perhaps he might give "100 Naughty Elven Phrases" a browse after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Atlas" by Lady Lamb the Beekeeper.
> 
>    
> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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